From the Desk of Zoe Washington(45)

“I found it,” he said, pointing to a building on the map. It wasn’t one of the buildings in the quad we were on, but it didn’t look that far. We had to go back to the Old Yard and across an area called the Plaza.

We took off running again, past students reading on the quad, weaving around a tour group and in between buildings, until we got to the Plaza. By then, I was sweating and panting. My phone said we still had fifteen minutes to talk to her. That had to be enough time.

The science building wasn’t as majestic as the ones in the quads. It was a regular stone building with a bunch of windows. Above the entrance in big letters were the words “Science Center.” We ran up to the doors and went inside.

We found the stairs and ran up to the third floor, bumping into students and professors who gave us strange looks as we passed. We stopped short at the door to the right of the stairway. There on a sign on the door were the words “Professor Susan Thomas, Mathematics.”

“We made it,” I said between breaths. “Hopefully she’s in there. Here goes . . .” I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Then I stopped breathing as I waited to hear a sound from inside.

Seconds passed, which felt like years. Finally, a voice called from the other side of the door.

“Come in,” it said. A woman’s voice.

I beamed at Trevor and he beamed back. We did it, I thought. We found her.

I opened the door carefully, like if I did it too fast, the person on the other side would disappear.

A woman sat behind a desk, which had a computer and several piles of paper. I studied her face, and it was her. She looked just like her picture. My throat went dry.

She gave us a smile that looked nice but confused at the same time. I was getting used to people looking at Trevor and me, wondering what we were doing in places where kids usually didn’t go.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I didn’t say anything. My mind went completely blank. Then Trevor nudged me, which jolted me back into action. I slipped my backpack off my back and it made a thud when it hit the floor.

“Yes. You’re Professor Thomas, right?” I unzipped the main pocket of my backpack, not wasting any time.

She nodded and smiled again. “Yes, that’s me. Can I help you with something?”

I almost burst into tears when she said she was the person we were looking for. But I stopped myself and focused on what I was there to do.

“I’m Zoe Washington,” I said as I fumbled through my backpack and yanked my journal out of it. I quickly flipped through the pages and pulled out the picture of Marcus. “I emailed you about this but I don’t know if you got it. I also left a voice mail.” I walked to Professor Thomas’s desk with the picture held out in front of me. “Do you recognize this person?” I put the picture down right in front of her, on top of some papers with numbers and equations on it.

Recognition flashed in Professor Thomas’s eyes. “I’m behind on emails, but yes—I did get your voice mail. I’m sorry I didn’t reply right away. It’s been a hectic start of the school year.” She then peered down at the photo and frowned at it. “Remind me how I should know this man?” She looked up at me.

“His name is Marcus Johnson,” I said. “You met him over twelve years ago when he came to your house to buy a futon. You were moving out of your house and you talked on the phone the day before. Do you remember him?”

Professor Thomas looked at me with a confused expression, but then she glanced at the picture on her desk and picked it up to get a closer look. Her mouth pinched as she stared at it.

C’mon. You have to recognize him. There was a clock on the wall above the window behind her. We had to be back in Davis Square in forty minutes. My mind raced. C’mon, c’mon, remember.

Finally, Professor Thomas sighed and put the picture down. “I’m sorry. Maybe he looks a little familiar, but I’m really not sure. You say I met him at my house? What’s his name again?”

“Marcus Johnson. He’s my dad. My . . . biological dad. And he’s . . .” I swallowed hard. “He’s in prison right now. For something he didn’t do. At least, he says he didn’t do it. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth.” Now I was crying a little. I couldn’t help it. It seemed so hopeless, the idea that he could be innocent. I was probably naive to think he didn’t deserve to be in prison. “He says he was at your house looking at the futon you were selling when the crime happened. I’m here to find out if he’s telling the truth. If he really is innocent.”

Professor Thomas’s eyes widened and she pushed a box of tissues from the corner of her desk closer to me. I took one and blew my nose with it.

“I’ve had a few tag sales over the years,” Professor Thomas said. “But I don’t specifically remember meeting your father. His name doesn’t ring any bells. I’m really sorry.”

“Maybe you talked about music? He likes Stevie Wonder and Boyz II Men and Jill Scott. Also, he was going to college at the time—UMass Boston. He played basketball, too, and liked to cook.” I tried to remember what else I knew about Marcus, so I could describe him to Professor Thomas better. But I hadn’t even met him in person. I still knew so little about him.

Professor Thomas frowned. “I don’t know . . .”